


Until My Heart Explodes

by pinetreelady



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Derek Hale, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Domestic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Rimming, Self-Indulgent, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinetreelady/pseuds/pinetreelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing Stiles casually dancing makes Derek want something quite specific.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until My Heart Explodes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would quite literally not exist without [elisera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elisera). It started six months ago when we were losing our minds over that video of Dylan O'Brien dancing with the cast of The Maze Runner. She has seen this thing grow from incoherent email flailing to an actual completed fic. [blcwriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter) is a fantastic beta; her attention to detail and pointed questions improved this fic immeasurably. All mistakes remain my own, however!

Derek can’t take his eyes from Stiles, who’s just waiting by the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s eye to order them another round. The heavy beat through the speakers changes slightly, and Derek recognizes the song that starts as one of Stiles’ favorites, and he immediately registers it, too, Derek can tell. He’s bobbing his head, shuffling his feet, and then … and then … he just moves his entire body in a way that leaves Derek’s conscious mind shorting out. His brain is melting out his ears. He feels like he can’t draw breath properly. His face is hot and his pants are tight and his skin is tingling. What the actual hell? How … how is it possible for Stiles to be moving this way? How is it possible Derek’s never seen him do this before? How is it possible for Derek’s brain to stay offline this long? 

Stiles is wearing a dark clinging henley and dark skinny jeans and the effect is amazing even when he’s standing still. He’s in motion, though, and all Derek can see is the breadth of his shoulders and the lean lines of his torso and his hips, undulating. With a little … hitch ... to his hips that is … WAIT. Derek’s lizard brain reboots enough to notice that he’s not the only one registering Stiles’ impromptu dance. The bartender turns away from his last customer to Stiles and his eyes glaze over a little and Derek just CAN’T. Stiles is HIS. He’s come far enough to know he can’t have a possessive meltdown in the middle of a bar; he knows if nothing else Stiles will be flat and unamused, and for good reason. He doesn’t pull shit like that anymore. So he carefully gets up from his seat and meanders around tables and dancing people (the song’s apparently popular with others besides Stiles; he thanks his stars that peoples’ notice of Stiles was restricted to looking and no one’s actually approached him … he might have lost control entirely) until he’s reached Stiles, now mercifully mostly still and chatting with the bartender as he refills their pitcher.

Derek pulls out a $20 and drops it on the bar as the bartender swings back around. Stiles glances at the $20 and his eyes light on Derek. “Dude!” he says, “I said I’d get this one!” 

Derek smiles, watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye, watches his face fall just slightly as he registers Derek’s presence in Stiles’ space. He meets Stiles’ eyes, feeling a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “I know.”

Stiles smirks a tiny bit. “Missed me that much, hunh?” he asks, eyes crinkling. 

“Something like that,” Derek says drily, hand hovering under Stiles’ elbow as they head back toward their table. 

***

Derek’s working out the next morning, light pouring through the open door, when the revelation hits. It wasn’t just generalized, mind-numbing desire that he’d felt, watching Stiles dance at the bar. It was something quite specific. 

***

They’re still pretty new, this way. After years of incrementally-growing closeness, after years of therapy and separately clawing their way toward functional adulthood, they finally acted on the pull between them. Derek’s just turned 30, Stiles, finished with his MBA, has returned to Beacon Hills consulting as an independent contractor while staying with his dad and paying off his loans. 

Their relationship’s a revelation. The sex is spectacular. Stiles regularly fries his brain. He likes to outright beg Derek to just put his dick into him already, while desperately wrestling Derek’s pants open and shoving him onto the bed so Stiles can climb into his lap and fuck himself senseless, moaning things like please, c'mon, let me, give it to me, please, dude, please. It’s so satisfying, and Derek hasn’t had even the slightest chance to hint at … anything else he might like to do.

Derek’s suffered a lot of fucking denial in his life, and now that Stiles has made him realize he wants something, he’s disinclined to suffer much more. He’s determined to speak up about this, to brave the smugness Stiles might project, so he can get what he wants. If, of course, Stiles is up for it. And if he can figure out how to broach the damn subject. 

***

Derek’s workouts seem to be playing host to revelations and good ideas, because it’s when he’s pushing himself into a truly crazy number of push-ups a few days later that it hits him, he just needs to see Stiles dancing like that again, but in a more … private setting, and then, maybe, he’ll be able to bring it up. He combs through iTunes looking for similar songs, creating a mix that will be perfect for when they’re hanging around the kitchen, making dinner and talking and flirting, as they seem to do, most evenings.

In his mind’s eye, it’s the perfect solution: Stiles will hear the opening beat of the song, and start dancing, and Derek will look at him appreciatively, and somehow he’ll access some previously-unknown well of eloquence and say, just like that, Stiles! I need you to fuck me now!

It doesn’t happen quite that way. 

*** 

There’s a lasagne in the oven, dishes in the sink and open beers behind them; Derek’s new playlist coming through the speakers between here and the living room through the open floor plan. They’re kissing against the counter, Stiles, with his clever fingers recently tangled in Derek’s hair but now moving toward his pants, and Derek has his hands on Stiles’ ass. They’re gasping against each other’s mouths, and Stiles glances at Derek's flushed face and sees ... something there. “What, dude?” he asks, his hands stilling the tiniest bit as he watches Derek's flush deepen.

And Derek tries to answer, he really does, but the words stick in his throat. And he just KNOWS he's being pathetic, and that Stiles is going to see the beseeching look in his eyes so he drops his gaze, but Stiles stops moving his hands at Derek's belt and so very gently puts one to Derek's chin and tilts his head up so that Derek has to meet his eyes. He's right, of course, Stiles reads him so well, and he sees the question there even though he doesn't know just what Derek is asking.

Derek can see the wheels turning in Stiles’ head. He’s so damn intuitive, he’ll be worrying that he's missed something and has been hurting Derek, somehow, by getting too carried away in the heat of the moment, and Derek’s heart clenches as he sees Stiles bite his lip and his eyes crinkle a little as his brain charges into overdrive. Has he somehow triggered Derek? Is there a boundary he's accidentally overstepped, or missed a signal because he's too caught up in his own desire? And how could he even do that to Derek? He’ll be berating himself, knowing he needs to be mindful of Derek's subtle clues, knowing how hard it is for this man he loves so deeply to articulate his needs.

Derek starts to panic a little when Stiles draws a shuddering breath and rests his forehead against Derek's. They’ve been here before, at the very beginning, right after Stiles’ return to Beacon Hills. They had revealing, painful, raw conversations, and Derek knows, KNOWS, what Stiles is feeling right now, things he admitted once in the dark, voice muffled against Derek’s chest. Derek knows he’s spiraling into self-blame, feeling like an utter selfish ass and suddenly sure that he'll never get this right. Stiles closes his eyes, and Derek can practically feel the anguish radiating from him. He knows how Stiles’ mind works, knows he’s trying to figure out what to say to FIX this, to keep their intimacy instead of driving Derek away. 

“Hey,” Derek says softly. He can practically smell the despair rising off Stiles. “I …” He knows he has to speak up, he has to own this, has to make it so Stiles knows it’s not him, that he’s done nothing wrong. Derek squeezes his arm and steps away briefly to turn the music down. Stiles’ heart rate has dropped a little but his eyes are still downcast, hands squeezing his own elbows, curled protectively around his front. 

“Hey, babe,” he tries again, and Stiles looks up at the unexpected endearment, eyes huge and (dammit) haunted. “Listen, you … haven’t missed anything. It’s … there’s something I wanted to ask you?” he can’t help the way his voice rises at the end, turning it into a question. 

Stiles takes him by the hand, saying, “Too much intensity, here, let’s go sit someplace, okay?” and pulls him into the living room, toward the couch. Change of venue is good, it’ll give Derek the chance to catch his breath, gather his thoughts a little.

Derek licks his lips, sits, lets Stiles’ hand go. Forces himself to meet Stiles’ steady gaze. “You … when you, when you danced to that song, in the bar the other night?” 

Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Dude. We’ve been over this before. I’m, I’m not going to ... I was not flirting with the bartender, honest, I shut his ass down when he gave me the eye, which, what,” Stiles pauses, pulls his head back, shakes his head a tiny bit, “when does that shit ever happen to me, right? Just, you know, you have to know, it’s never anyone but you, okay? I may be messed up, I might … make mistakes, talking too much or missing your signals, but you have to know I’d never, I’d never,” his own vehemence appears to choke him for a moment. 

“No! My god, no, that’s not, that’s not it at all, Stiles,” Derek looks into his eyes. “No. Just. I did see him looking at you, but I know you weren’t, except,” he pauses, breathes, blinks, once, slowly, “you … you have no idea, still, after all this time, what you look like, what you do, the effect you have on people. On me.”

A tiny curve appears at one end of Stiles’ mouth, there and gone almost too fast to notice. “So, if it’s not about you going all possessive on my ass, then....” Stiles trails off. 

His unspoken question hangs in the air between them. 

“You’re, you’re going to laugh at me,” Derek says softly.

“Dude, NO, no, you know that’s not, that’s not the way we are, right?”

“No, it’s just, I’ve,” he huffs out a breath, impatient with himself, “I’ve made this into a bigger deal than it should be, okay? It’s important, yes, but not … serious. It’s about,” he stops, breathes again, chances a look at Stiles, who still looks too serious. “I want to ask you something, for something, you know, I’d like to try,” and there it is, he can feel the telltale flush in his cheeks, in his ears.

Stiles notices, of course he does, cracks a little grin. Oh thank GOD, thinks Derek, if Stiles is smiling again … good things happen when Stiles smiles.

“So,” Stiles says, smile gone but a tiny hint of playfulness in his tone, a look of comprehension dawning. “So I think I’m getting something, at last, here.”

Derek just looks at him, loving him, so much, knowing it’s probably showing all over his face, and letting it.

“It’s got something to do with the soundtrack, doesn’t it? It’s the same song as the one at the bar that night.”

Derek can feel his lip twitch. Stiles is so fucking perceptive. Maybe they’ll get through this. Maybe he’ll get through this, and maybe … maybe … it’s almost too much to hope for. He shakes himself a little, that feeling of too-tight-in-his-skin threatening to reappear. He aches, deep in his bones, to be owned by Stiles in a way he’s never experienced before.

Stiles suddenly stands, goes back to the kitchen, clicks the play button, backs up the track and … and there it is, there he goes, and Derek is done, watching Stiles dance with intent, this time. His eyes slip to half mast, he shuffles, turns, and rolls not just his hips, dammit, but his whole torso. His eyes flick up and meet Derek’s, and his slow, sweet smile punches Derek in the gut. All that lithe grace, Derek thinks through the buzz in his ears, the flush on his cheeks, the pressure around his eyes, all that fucking into him, oh my god. He keeps his eyes locked on Stiles’, willing his face to be transparent, for once, for his mask to slip away, for his emotions to bleed through so Stiles can read his heart written on his face. They haven’t exchanged big declarations of feelings yet, not aloud, but Derek knows how he feels about Stiles.

Derek also knows he can’t move like that, yet he approaches Stiles who reaches out for him, puts his hands on Derek’s hips, guiding him to turn around so his back is to Stiles’ front, and Derek lifts an arm, and curls his hand round the back of Stiles’ neck, his eyes slipping shut, and he hears Stiles’ breath hitch like his hips. Yes, he thinks, yes. But somehow it feels tender and sweet, not raunchy like when he’s seen people dancing this way before, even when Stiles pulls him impossibly closer, rubs against him, pressing with unmistakable intent.

“That’s it, you know?” Derek murmurs. “That’s what I want.”

“To dance with me?” Stiles’ voice is so low as his lips brush Derek’s ear, teasing, obviously trying to put Derek at ease. Derek suppresses a shiver.

“Not that. Well. Not just that? But … I want, I want,” Derek’s heart pounds so hard he can feel the blood rushing in his ears, “I want you to fuck me,” he finally gets out, so quietly, but he says it. He feels like cheering. He squeezes Stiles’ hand where it’s under his, on his hip.

“Oh my god, Derek, oh my god.” Stiles stills and turns him bodily around and puts his hands to Derek’s jaw, tilting their heads together, looking into his eyes. “All you had to do was say, okay? I would seriously LOVE that, you have no fucking idea, how much I want that, too.” And the look in Stiles’ eyes tells Derek that he knows, he fucking knows, how hard this was for Derek, what a victory those words represent. God, Derek loves him so much.

The timer for the lasagne goes off and Derek’s mouth twitches. “I know we’re having a moment, but I’m still hungry,” he says.

“Oh god, me too, and I’d seriously die before I’d miss your lasagne, dude.” Stiles’ smile softens, and he adds, with a wicked look, “besides, there’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

***

They kiss again, for awhile, in the kitchen, while the lasagne cools on the counter before they cut into it, anticipation sparking back and forth between them. Derek feels giddy with it, so excited and eager, like their first time, but with the added weight of months of care and relationship-building between them. He thinks they’re doing this on purpose, now, stretching out the wait, deliberately teasing. They could leave their dinner and go straight to bed but waiting feels exciting. And he wasn’t kidding, he’s starving. He had a long day of work out on the Preserve and fresh air always makes him hungrier than usual.

They manage to keep their hands to themselves well enough to eat, though Stiles does have his socked foot tucked in between Derek’s, and more often than not their free hands are linked together across the table. 

“God, I think I ate too much,” Stiles groans a little, and stifles a burp. “Your fucking lasagne should be illegal. It’s like crack.”

Derek smirks, maybe preens just a bit. He’s spent years perfecting this recipe, chasing a sensory memory from childhood; his sauce long-simmered and seasoned just right, the meat tender and chunky, the blend of cheeses balanced between creamy and sharp. He’s ridiculously happy when he can feed Stiles and have him react this way. Some of his best memories center around food, comfort, company. 

“Oof, dude, you should never have let me have that third piece. I’m gonna need to digest for awhile before we …” he trails off, flushing a little.

“Before we … what?” Derek mocks faux-innocently, unable to resist teasing a little when Stiles’ demeanor cracks.

“Before I fuck your brains out, dude,” Stiles smirks, and Derek feels his face flame as Stiles laughs at him outright.

“I should know better than to get into it with you by now. I don’t stand a chance, do I?”

“Nope. It’s good you’re learning that, at last.”

“So. Um. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you have done it before, right?” 

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, eyes sparkling mischievously, and Derek cuts him off.

“Stiles. You know what I mean. Quit being ridiculous.”

“Aw, babe, you make it so easy, though.”

“Can we be a little bit serious, just … please?”

Stiles pouts. 

“I just. I need.” Derek sighs. Why are words so hard, sometimes. Nothing takes away his ability to talk, anymore, like this. He’s proud, now, of how he can keep up with Stiles in their verbal sparring, that is, after all, foreplay. But sometimes he still gets stuck, a backlog of feelings creating a block he can’t get past without help.

“Hey. I’m sorry.” Stiles is around the table in the blink of an eye, pulling him out of his chair and back toward the sofa. “C’mon, you’re right, of course you’re right. But you know me, you know inappropriate use of humor is pretty much my default, and I know that’s not helpful, GOD, shut me up already.” He plops onto the sofa, pulls Derek down next to him, puts his legs over Derek’s lap and rests his forehead on Derek’s shoulder. “Listening now. I promise.”

Derek blinks. How does Stiles DO this? How is he so perfect? How does he know just what to do. This position is intimate, close, more comfortable than at the table. They’re together, touching, but can avoid eye contact if it’s too intense. Derek puts his arms around Stiles, feeling lucky, feeling happy, pressing a kiss to his head. “Look. I’m. I’ve.” He stops. Words. He rehearses them in his head. I’ve never done this before. I’m scared. I’m nervous. It’s not so much the physical act that scares me, it’s the intimacy. If only he didn’t want this so much with Stiles, then they could just go on the way they have been, which has been more than Derek could have hoped for. He sighs.

Stiles looks at him for a moment. “Want me to venture a guess about what’s going on in that adorable head of yours?”

Derek feels pathetic. He can’t even say what he wants without Stiles’ help. How did he ever function, before this, before they were together? How can he read him so very well? 

“It’s okay, Derek. Feelings are fucking hard.”

Years of therapy have helped him learn to articulate his feelings, to use his damn words, even when it comes to sex, but … this is something outside his comfort zone, and Derek huffs, impatient with himself. “No kidding. I’m sorry, Stiles. Yeah. Can you … can you help me?” 

“Of course,” and Stiles’ voice is so tender that Derek almost cracks in two.

“Okay. You nervous?”

“Yeah.” Derek admits, to his hands.

“You ever done this before?”

“No.”

Stiles knows Derek’s experience is pretty limited; he’s no fool and they both know how he comes across to people, power top all the way. Derek’s always been interested in bottoming, he’s fantasized about it, but he’s never been in a place where he felt like he could trust enough to ask, trust enough to want it except as an abstraction.

“You, um, you wondering if I have?”

Derek nods, still unable to meet Stiles’ eyes. He hates imagining Stiles with other people.

“I have, actually. But not in a while. You know I haven’t had a relationship in a long time, right? Basically since you … since we started our intense emailing thing … and even before that, it’d been awhile.”

Derek knows Stiles is trying to put him at ease, put them on more equal footing, here, and he loves him a little bit more for it.

“I might be a little rusty, but I promise I’ll be careful, and we can stop ANY TIME if it’s not working for you, okay?”

Derek looks Stiles in the eye, nods, says quietly, “I know. I promise I’ll let you know.” Then he moves his hand to Stiles’ head, cupping the side of his face, turning it so he can press their mouths together, trying to put everything he’s feeling into their kisses. Soft presses of lips to say, you get me like no one else; tiny, gentle licks at Stiles’ lips to say thank you for articulating my feelings; long, soulful sucking at his lower lip to say, I love you. Derek can’t say any of that aloud, not yet, but he can kiss Stiles senseless. Arms curling around Stiles’ neck and his side pulling him impossibly closer. He noses along Stiles’ jaw; he lets his head fall back and Derek mouths down his throat. 

Stiles pulls away and rests their foreheads together to catch his breath, eyes bright and mouth deliciously red. “I could be wrong, dude, but I think we’re wearing too many clothes.”

For some reason that makes Derek laugh aloud, and Stiles looks delighted. Derek dumps Stiles’ legs off his lap and drags him upright with both hands. “You’re not wrong,” he says, and kisses Stiles some more. Kissing Stiles, it’s like a drug. He can’t seem to get enough. “Want to take this party upstairs?”

“Oh god, yes,” Stiles says, then takes off running and says, “Race you!” 

Derek pretends to chase him, but lets Stiles crash on the bed first so Derek can pounce on top of him, bracketing his head and kissing him some more, before burying his face in Stiles’ neck and pressing their bodies together.

“You, um, you want a shower first, dude?”

Derek does. Showering with Stiles is never boring, and frequently results in orgasms. 

They shuck off their clothes as the bathroom fills with steam. “God, the radiant flooring in this bathroom is the best thing ever,” Stiles says, pulling off his socks, hopping a little. “I always forget, and think my feet are gonna freeze, but mmm, it’s so toasty!”

Derek, stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, crowds him against the wall. “I’ll show you toasty.” and sucks a bruise onto Stiles’ collarbone. 

“Mmmm,” Stiles moans a little, pushing him away. “Still too many clothes,” he sing-songs. “Get your gorgeous ass in the goddamn shower already.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Derek tells him, meeting Stiles’ eyes in the mirror as he strips off his shirt and steps out of his boxers. He makes smoochy-lips at Stiles and ducks into the shower. “Hurry UP, Stiles,” he tosses over his shoulder. Stiles’ easy acceptance makes him feel lighthearted, flirty. Relief and anticipation curl in his gut and fuel his ability to match Stiles’ banter.

“Mmmm. Bossy.”

“You know it. Now get in here so I can clean you off,”

Stiles sticks his head through the gap in the curtain, leering. “I’d rather you get me dirty, baby.”

“Oh, that’s on my agenda, too.”

“Promises, promises.”

Stiles finally makes it into the shower and Derek grabs him immediately, rubs against him, hard, and smirks as their cocks catch and slide and Stiles gasps a little. “Jesus fuck, Derek.”

“Mm-hm.” Derek takes his soapy hands and starts at Stiles’ neck, works his way down his collar-bones to his nipples and pauses, thumbing at them hard, watching Stiles’ cock jump. Stiles has ridiculously sensitive nipples, and Derek exploits the hell out of it. He rinses Stiles’ chest off, then bends down and mouths at them, flicking his tongue at one while his thumb works the other. Stiles throws his head back till it smacks the tile wall, and he hisses a little in pain.

“Stiles,” Derek looks up at his face. “Don’t crack my goddamn tile, okay?”

“Nnnngh.” Stiles sounds strangled. “I’ll do what I like, ass. Now put your mouth back where it belongs, please.”

Derek obliges, and Stiles groans. Derek pauses, waits for Stiles to meet his eyes, and says, “I wonder if I could get you off just by doing this, you think?” 

“I think you have a fucking death wish if you try, tonight,” Stiles retorts.

Derek smirks. “Maybe some other time, hm?” and kisses down Stiles’ torso, dropping to his knees. He soaps up his hands again and runs them down Stiles’ sides, around to the curve of his ass, scrubs a bit and lets suds drip down his crack, then follows it with his fingers. “JESUS,” Stiles croaks as Derek’s fingers rub briskly around his hole, pressing in just enough to tease, then around to his balls, soaping them lightly, taking his time, while Stiles writhes.

Derek removes his hands and looks up at Stiles, blinking through the spray. “Hey. How come I’m doing all the work here, and you’re just lazing around?”

Stiles glares and Derek smirks, scrubbing Stiles’ inner thighs, his knees, his calves. 

“Hey, hey, you missed something!” Stiles says.

“Yeah, I’m getting to your feet, princess.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You’ll get what you get and like it.”

Stiles takes Derek’s head in his hands and yanks his hair, a little, in retaliation. Derek jerks in surprise and gets a faceful of shower right in eyes. Stiles laughs, and Derek stands, abruptly, grabbing Stiles’ sides and making him laugh and jerk. “That tickles! Quit it!” he whines.

Derek turns his back, pointedly grabs the shampoo and washes his own hair, then soaps himself up. 

“Hey.”

Derek ignores him, choosing instead to run his hands down his own front, over his nipples and his abs and toward his cock. Stiles’ mouth drops open and Derek struggles to keep his face blank. He gazes at the ceiling as he carefully, showily, washes his cock, gently pulling back his foreskin before skating down toward his balls, and then turns around to show Stiles as he deliberately, thoroughly, washes his ass. Derek can’t resist sneaking a look at Stiles’ face, and he’s not disappointed. He looks wrecked. Victory! thinks Derek.

“You okay, there, babe?” he asks Stiles.

“Yeah! Fine! Why do you ask?” Stiles abruptly pulls himself together. He can’t stand it that Derek’s winning this little game of oneupmanship, at the moment. “Do you need any help, washing, or, y’know, getting yourself off, or do you want to just take care of it yourself?” 

Derek pretends to consider the question seriously, and moves to nonchalantly rinse himself free of lather, before grabbing Stiles to put him into a headlock, rubbing his dick aggressively against Stiles’ ass, feeling him quiver. “Dammit, Derek.” Stiles struggles to free himself, and Derek grins, leans forward, licks Stiles’ ear, bites gently. “Yes, Stiles?” he asks, low, not releasing him. He reaches around and gently palms Stiles. “You want to concede this round to me?”

“No, you big supernatural cheater! How can I compete with your goddamn muscles?” Derek can feel his heart rate stutter, as he struggles in his arms, knows Stiles is fighting to keep his voice even. 

“Is it really a competition, Stiles? Is that how you view this?”

Stiles jerks around abruptly as Derek releases his hold. “I’ll show you competition. Get yourself rinsed off and let’s take this to bed, sweetheart,” he snarks, and smacks Derek’s ass once, hard, before he gets out of the shower and grabs a towel. Derek turns off the water and follows. 

***  
They’re on the bed, hair still damp and tousled from the shower, bodies pressed together, aching with need. Derek’s head is thrown back on his pillow, Stiles heavy on top of him. Every shifting point of contact further ignites his desire. 

“God, Derek,” Stiles groans, mouthing Derek’s neck. “You’re, god, you’re so fucking perfect, I just can’t stand it.”

Derek grabs Stiles’ ass and groans as their cocks slide and catch, too much friction for true pleasure, too close to pleasure to stop. Derek pants, swipes his hand uselessly toward the side of the bed. “I can’t reach the drawer, Stiles,” he gasps, and Stiles swats his hand gently out of the way, reaches under his pillow to produce the lube he’d stashed there. 

“Listen, Derek, I meant what I said before, okay? If this gets to be too much, you let me know. We can always do it some other time.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but the words catch in his throat. He frustrates himself, god. Why is the easy banter so … well, easy, but when the conversation takes a serious turn, he’s overcome by an inability to speak?

Derek forces himself to meet Stiles’ steady gaze, and nods. “I know,” he kisses Stiles softly, once, then pulls back and says, “thanks.” 

Stiles is sitting between Derek’s knees, toying gently with Derek’s balls, running his hands over Derek’s thighs. “Is it okay if I use my mouth, Derek?” 

Derek shudders, struggles to make his mouth work. Stiles won’t go on without permission. “Yeah,” he manages to breathe. “Yes, Stiles, it’s always yes, for you.” 

Stiles briefly rests his head against the inside of Derek’s thigh. “I know this can be hard for you, Derek. But we can do it, okay?”

Stiles reaches up to grab a pillow, wedging it under Derek’s hips, before gently kissing Derek’s cock, trailing kisses down the side, down past his balls. 

Derek tenses the tiniest bit as he realizes Stiles’ intention. “Shh,” Stiles murmurs. “I’ve got you.” And he moves his tongue lower still. Derek is simultaneously more turned on than he’s ever been, and feeling cracked open by this level of intimacy. No one’s ever done this to him before, and he’s not sure how he feels about it. Not sure he can get past those feelings of discomfort, almost of shame (how can anyone enjoy this? how can he be worth it?) to get to a place where he can enjoy it. All that flashes through his mind over the span of a few rapid heartbeats, as Stiles licks around his ass, when suddenly Stiles’ tongue breaches his hole and he gasps aloud. His brain just shuts down, pleasure erupting through him as Stiles thumbs at the head of his cock while thrusting his tongue into his ass.

Stiles fumbles for the lube, breathing hard against Derek’s balls, and coats his fingers, then gently pushes a finger in next to his tongue. Derek writhes. He can’t process all the sensations. Stiles pulls his face away, continuing to finger him slowly, petting his thigh gently with his other hand. “Shhh, babe, it’s okay.”

Derek has his elbow crooked across his eyes, other hand curled up around a handful of comforter.

When Stiles shifts from prepping Derek (god, how can he be that patient? again, Derek bites back the thoughts that will take him down a negative spiral, fueling his inadequacy and insecurity), he pats Derek’s belly and mutters, “I’ll be right back, okay?” Derek hears water running in the bathroom as Stiles presumably cleans his face and rinses his mouth. He’s back so fast, and Stiles nudges at Derek’s arm still hiding his face. 

“Hey, babe, you with me?” Stiles lies down next to him, strokes his cock a couple of times and noses at Derek’s neck. “You, um, ready?”

Derek nods, forces his voice to cooperate. “Yeah.”

“So, how do you want to …” Stiles trails off. “You probably know it’s usually considered easier if I’m behind you … we could also, you know, start one way and change later if you want, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s … let’s …” Derek can’t articulate his thoughts. So he props himself up, presses a kiss on Stiles’ mouth, relaxes into that familiarity for a few moments. Stiles brushes his fingertips over his face, such gentle, loving touches. 

“Here,” says Stiles, pulling him up, guiding him into turning around, onto his hands and knees. He’s so overwhelmed, but still so aroused.

At first Derek's not sure about this at all. When Stiles tries pressing his dick in, Derek's suddenly glad Stiles can't see his face because this feels all wrong. He belatedly recalls half remembered advice and bears down, and that helps. Marginally. This still feels fucking weird. Wrong. Foreign. Stiles is murmuring encouragement as he pushes incrementally, but Derek's almost lost in his head. Movement above him stills and Stiles' voice pierces the haze in his mind. "You with me, babe?"

Derek is pretty sure the power of speech has left him so he attempts an affirmative noise and a nod where his head's mashed into the pillows. He wants to keep going. He does. Stiles stays still and breathes audibly. “It's pretty fucking weird the first time,” and Derek hears the way Stiles' words echo his thoughts. It grounds him a little. Gets him out of his head. "Like it just can't belong there. Like who ever thought this was a good idea." Stiles chuckles, sounding strained. A little breathless. "It's okay. Try to relax and it'll get less weird. Promise."

It does, as Stiles gives him time to adjust. Derek gives an experimental wiggle of his ass and is rewarded by Stiles swearing softly. So Derek does it again. Stiles thrusts the tiniest bit and Derek gasps. He turns his face to the side so his mouth isn't muffled by the pillow. "...more?" And Stiles thrusts again, a little harder, angled just a little differently, and, whoa. Derek's eyes fly open. He moves a hand to his cock and strokes himself, a moan escaping that’s echoed by Stiles.

Stiles sounds undone. Derek is familiar with the struggle to get past his own deep-seated self loathing, so it takes him a moment to realize I did that, I made Stiles sound that way. “I'm not going to last,” Stiles pants, “you feel so fucking amazing.”

Somehow that helps. Derek remembers why he wanted this, how Stiles looks and moves and how much they care for each other. The way Stiles wants all of him, the way he loses control while taking it, too. The way Derek has never been able to cede that control to anyone, before Stiles. His body slowly adjusts as Stiles is paused above and inside him, before slowly beginning a relentless thrusting.

Derek's lost almost in his own head, in the sensations, but, "Stiles," he says, and god, how is this his voice, rough and low and needy? 

Stiles stills immediately. "I'm here," and runs a hand along Derek's sweaty side. 

"I want to see your face."

"Yeah, yes," Stiles grunts and carefully pulls out. Derek feels a sound of loss punched out of him at the emptiness even as Stiles is turning him over, petting his sides as he arranges Derek on his back, a pillow under his hips and one knee slung over Stiles' elbow before he's pressing back in. Leaning over Derek, Stiles' face is blotchy, his eyes squeezed shut, mouth swollen and he's never looked more perfect.

He opens his eyes a little and smiles at Derek, then palms his cock, making him twitch, hard, which makes Stiles gasp as he registers it, and when did Stiles slick up his hand, because that feels fucking amazing, with Stiles’ dick up his ass and the tip of Stiles’ thumb flicking at that spot on the head of his cock that’s always made him wild. Somehow it’s intensified, all his nerve endings magnified, by feeling so full. It’s new and weird but amazing, too, and the feeling of Stiles’ hand on his cock somehow makes it both shockingly new and yet familiar and right at the same time.

Stiles thrusts, hard, suddenly, and Derek flashes back to what started this in the first place, to the visual of Stiles’ spontaneous dance in the bar and then again downstairs a little while ago, and he can see, and feel, now, how right he was. It’s the same movement, and he was right, he knew it. Derek’s gone, out of his body, out of his mind, shuddering apart as he comes all over Stiles’ hand. Dimly he registers Stiles thrusting hard, another low, guttering moan, and he feels Stiles slump over him, pressing sloppy kisses to whatever part of Derek’s skin he can reach.

Sex with Stiles is always good, okay? It’s sweet and it’s hot and they’ve become comfortable with the goofy little noises and the bodily weirdnesses and it’s GOOD. It can be playful or soulful, altogether RIGHT. But sometimes it blows his fucking mind. Sometimes he feels like every atom of his being has been shattered and reordered, just through this animalistic, passionate act. This is one of those times. Monumental. Like he’ll never forget it. He knows realistically not to expect too much of his first time, but sometimes low expectations can lead to pleasant surprises. Looks like this is one of those times, and Derek knows it’s all down to Stiles: beautiful, perceptive Stiles who just knows what Derek needs, and is careful and loving and talks too much, sometimes, and laughs and makes inappropriate jokes, and as close to perfect as Derek’s ever going to get.

Derek’s still in a stupor, but he feels Stiles gently run his hands down his sides, then get out of bed, head to the bathroom, open a cupboard, fish out some cloths. He can hear the water running and Stiles is back, wiping Derek’s thighs and ass, balls and cock and abdomen with a warm cloth. He follows it up with a dry towel, chasing the cool dampness from his skin. He can barely force his eyes open to look, and Stiles is focused, gentle, efficient. He glances at Derek’s eyes and smiles. “Okay?”

Derek nods. So much more than okay. The bed shifts as Stiles takes the cloths and towels back to the bathroom, then he reappears, curling around Derek as he pulls up the covers to cast out the chill. Derek drifts, for long moments, just enjoying Stiles’ presence. He finds Stiles’ hand and squeezes gently, holding on. Takes a breath. “Stiles. I love you.” He hears Stiles’ breath catch, his heart pound. But he doesn’t think to take it back, doesn’t waver, even in his thoughts. He’s never felt like this about anyone, and he wants Stiles to know it. 

“Oh god, Derek. I love you too. So much.” Stiles lifts his head enough so that their eyes meet, and they smile, kiss gently. The words don’t really matter. They don’t change anything when you already know. It’s an affirmation, sure, but not a necessity.

Stiles strokes Derek’s chest, head on his pillow, cheek pressed against his shoulder. He hums softly, a contented noise. 

As they drift toward sleep, Derek thinks about the morning to come. He’ll get up and go for a run, but a fast one, because he doesn’t want to miss lazy morning time with Stiles. When he’ll get back, the house will smell of coffee, and Stiles will be sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop and NPR will be on. He’ll have bookmarked stories he wants to tell Derek about later, when they’re eating, when they’re hanging out, when they’re hiking. 

Stiles makes berry-and-kale smoothies every morning and Derek found them weird at first but they’ve grown on him. And he’ll probably have some multigrain pancake batter resting, because he’s been experimenting with millet and quinoa. They’ll be locally-produced artisan bacon in the oven and … Derek blinks his eyes open, feeling Stiles pressed all along his back, arm slung over Derek’s middle, and Derek rests his hand on Stiles’, squirms a foot gently into the space between Stiles’ shins. Reaches back with his other hand to adjust the comforter around their shoulders. Smiles. Doesn’t understand how things seem to keep getting better. But he’ll take it. He raises their clasped hands to rest over his heart, and drifts into sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic) Until My Heart Explodes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153996) by [preslai182](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preslai182/pseuds/preslai182)




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